In a world of instant messages, infinite feeds, and AI-generated everything, I still find myself drawn to something slower, quieter, and far more tactile: baseball cards.
There’s a strange kind of joy in holding a slabbed rookie card, examining the print quality, feeling the weight of a PSA-graded case, or even noticing an off-center miscut. It’s a physical connection to something real, historical, and unreplicable — which is ironic, given that so much of my day is spent working in tech.
A Foot in Two Worlds
I build automation pipelines. I deploy Kubernetes clusters. I’m experimenting with publishing blog posts entirely from my phone using GitHub Actions. I collaborate with AI to outline ideas (this post started as a suggestion from ChatGPT).
And yet, I collect cardboard.
Why?
Because in a time when everything is digital, permanent feels rare. Ownership feels rare. So much of the modern world is borrowed — accounts, tokens, feeds. But that Griffey rookie? That Bobby Witt Jr. parallel? It’s mine. I can see it, hold it, trade it, or pass it on.
It's Not Just Nostalgia
Sure, there's nostalgia. I grew up flipping through Topps checklists and trading with friends. But today, collecting means something different. It’s a reminder that value isn’t just about utility — it’s also about story, scarcity, and connection.
It’s why people still read paper books, why vinyl records keep selling, and why even in the age of ChatGPT, people still write by hand.
Holding Space for the Physical
I'm not rejecting the digital world — far from it. I’m leaning into it with smart workflows, automation, and AI tools that make my life more efficient. But I’m also carving out space for things that don’t load on a screen.
Collecting cards reminds me to pause. To appreciate the imperfect. To recognize that not everything needs to be optimized.
In a world of endless scroll, there’s something revolutionary about stopping to look at a piece of printed cardboard and remembering why it matters.
What do you collect in a world that moves too fast?